Today's activity was a trip to the market, which takes place in the city of Karatu, Tanzania twice every month. I had exchanged my USD for Tanzanian shillings earlier that afternoon and was ready to put my Swahili to use and purchase some traditional fabrics to make clothes out of.
A short drive through the valley in the School for Field Studies (SFS) trucks and we had arrived at our destination. My eyes widened at what we saw, and it was safe to say that none of us had quite been expecting the scene laid out before us: A mosh pit of vendors and shoppers as far as the eye could see milling about on top of a massive expanse of barren land. Before we even exited our truck, we were already being mobbed by vendors eager to sell to the much more clueless "wazungu," or white people. I took a deep breath and hopped down out of the truck.
"Look! Look here!"
"Bracelets just for you! I made them myself!"
"Hapana asante, hapana asante," I replied with some of the only relevant words I knew, "no thank you." I had no idea how many times I would say those words within the next two hours.
As I continued walking and avoiding eye contact with the vendors who were swarming our group like tetse flies, we came upon a large livestock section. Goats, sheep, chickens and cattle of a size to be pitied were led about using flimsy rope tied to the leg. Past the animals, fruits and vegetables were laid out on colorful fabrics. The market contained everything you could imagine in an organized chaos: sweatshirts and coats, socks and undergarments, phones, jewelry, mugs and Tupperware, suitcases, roasted corn and more. There was barely room to walk in the sea of humanity and I trampled past an infinite amount of setups laid out on the ground.
Soon enough we laid eyes on the fabric section. All the students had been anticipating buying fabrics of their choice, which could then be taken to the shop close to SFS in the village of Rhotia to be made into clothing. You could request dresses, pants, a sweatshirt, overalls, or whatever else your heart desired and have it custom made by an expert tailor in the village for a few bucks. An ocean of fabric was stacked on the ground of several stations in the area. Blues, greens, pinks and other vibrant colors littered the ground in every design imaginable. I was overwhelmed by the options, but even more overwhelmed by the people. As I tried to take a look, I was cornered by multiple men selling bracelets, necklaces, little drums and other small items in backpacks everywhere I turned. They would tap me on the shoulder, jump out in front of me, and even start placing the jewelry in your hands so that you could not get away. I learned to be polite but firm: "Hapana asante" and move on....not as if that even worked the majority of the time.
Fabrics were sold in 2, 4 and 6 meter bunches. After quite some searching and time taken up fending off other vendors who followed me every which way, I settled on a colorful 4 meter print in an eclectic pattern with shades of white, blue, green, and orange. "Bei?" I asked, which meant price in Swahili. "Forty-five," the man replied. 45 thousand Tanzanian shillings translated to a little over $20 USD. I didn't know much, but I surely knew that that was an absurd price to ask for. They often tried to overprice the unbeknownst American, but I was prepared and whipped out another phrase in my toolkit: "Nusu bei," I said, which means "half price." The general rule of thumb was to ask for half of the original offer. Unsurprisingly, the response was no. But I had one more trick up my sleeve. "Asante," I replied, and casually began to walk away.
"Okay, okay," the vendor conceded, "40." Still far too much.
"Thirty."
"Thirty-five."
I knew that 35 was still pretty overpriced, but I accepted the offer and paid for the fabric. I may not have done a perfect job, but I have to admit, I was quite proud of my successful haggling abilities.
Me and a small group continued to walk onward for a bit; some of my friends acquiring a multitude of items they didn't actually want due to the pressure of the salesmen. I ended up with a few bracelets, one each for my sister and mother, and a third which I got for free (although I'm sure the reality of the situation was simply that I had grossly overpaid for the other two).
On our way back to the car, our pockets were empty and energy diminished. Would I return? Most likely not, my stress levels were through the roof for most of that outing. Nevertheless, I am extremely glad that I had the opportunity to attend the market and get a taste for the local life. We'll see what the next market brings...
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